The Breakdown
by Alex DeLyan
Summary: Michael's busy producing his sequel to Meltdown, Trevor sinks deeper into depression and drink and Franklin takes advantage of the Vinewood life. But will their newfound lifestyles collide with each other? DON'T FORGET TO REVIEW, AND FOLLOW IF YOU WANT! THANK YOU!
1. Filming

The Breakdown

Filming

**_A/N: HELLOO, THIS IS MY FIRST GTA FANFICTION WHICH IM HOPING TO FOLLOW UP ON THE PRETTY DISAPPOINTING LACK OF FILMMAKING THAT GOES ON IN THE GAME. IF THIS IS SUCCESSFUL I MIGHT MAKE A FEW MORE SEQUELS. BTW, I DONT OWN ANYTHING, APART FROM MY OC'S AND THANKS TO THE GTA WIKI FOR HELPING ME LOCATE ACTUAL IN-GAME CHARACTERS THAT ARE ACTORS. _**

"Cut!" Michael bellowed, indicating the flaws the actors were making. "You're just not bringing enough to it." He said to Bruce Spade, who he felt wasn't making sufficient contributions to the movie. "This is the sequel, and you're behaving like we're still on Meltdown. This is a different city, different people." The millionaire producer said, worried about the approaching deadline that neared ever closer. If the project wasn't fully complete by the fifteenth of June 2014, he could lose his contracts with Richards Majestic. Even if he and Solomon had became good friends over the last few months, the studio boss had tried to be as lenient with the recommission of the series.

Then, minutes later, the owner himself had appeared to see Michael. "Hey! Michael, how's it going? You using my money wisely?" He quizzed the ex-criminal.

"I'd like to think so." Michael retorted, sipping a cup of coffee. "As you can see, we're, er, we're on tea break." He added, excusing himself. From outside, the protests of Poppy Mitchell, who was playing a young stockbroker in the film could be heard.

"Where are you going?" Dave Cooper, the director asked, to which she screamed back:

"To my trailer!"

"She's a very angry girl, eh?" Solomon asked, to which Michael agreed with a nod.

"She's had it tough these past few months, though." Michael explained her erratic behaviour.

"I know, I know." Richards replied in an understanding way. "Anyway, I just came here to tell you about the psycho parked outside the studio." Solomon told him, to which Michael immediately put down his cup of coffee and walking out of the green-screen area.

"Mikey!" Trevor screeched on top note, for all of Los Santos to hear. He was standing up in his dirty red truck, downing several cans of beer.

"Ah, no, what the hell, Trevor?!" He exclaimed, putting his hands over his head in despair.

"I came to see you, f-filming your new movie!" The forty-something shouted, drunkenly slurring his words.

"Security!" Michael called the guards who hurried outside the studio and wrestled the troublemaker to the ground. He struggled and protested as the bulky men restrained him and slapped him in handcuffs. Onlookers and witnesses were now gathering in crowds to watch the spectacle unfold in front of them. Some laughed, others snapped photos of them to share on the internet.

About five minutes after the security guards had managed to get him calmed down using force, they had Ron down at the studio to collect him. "Sorry about this, Michael." He apologised. The producer nodded his head and said:

"Don't worry about it. We should be used to it by now. But, he really needs to get cleaned up." Michael scolded his old friend as he saw a soiled patch on his jeans. "Maybe he should go to rehab..." The celebrity added, mulling it over.

"No! No!" Ron snapped, all of a sudden a lot more defensive of his colleague. "You think you're all powerful and big now you've got your vinewood job, and you're nice shiny penthouse." Ron put in, more aggressive now. "I'll take care of him, if you're too good for him." Janowski ended the conversation, carting Trevor onto the red truck and driving off back to Sandy Shores, in an angered voice.

"Everybody's too good for him." Michael spat, returning to the set.


	2. Burning Down The House

The Breakdown

Burning Down The House

15th November 2013

The car pulled up outside Michael's mansion and Franklin, Lamar and Madd Dog exited the vehicle. Michael himself was waiting outside the house for them. "Yo, s'up with the welcoming committee, dawg?" Madd Dog asked, becoming paranoid.

"You cruising with Vinewood's V.I.P's now, eh Frank?" Michael quizzed, amused by Madd Dog's behaviour.

"A washed up rapper and America's shittest banger? Yeah, I'm livin' it up." Franklin retorted. Michael produced a bottle of champagne and the four men headed inside. Setting themselves down on various positions of the living room furniture, they turned on the T.V and flicked through the channels while the rapper lit up to keep himself composed. Franklin took out his phone and made a call.

Stepping outside into the hall, he waved a flirtatious hand to Tracey who was surreptitiously sneaking out for the night to make her regular visits to the city's nightlife. He was ringing up some of his new socialite neighbours and buddies who also inhabited Vinewood Hills. "So where's yo bitch, Mikey boy?" Lamar enquired, nudging Michael who fixed a stern eyebrow and downed a sip of his champagne.

"She's visiting a friend downtown." He responded, a seriousness in his voice.

"That what we callin' it now then?" Lamar sniggered, and receiving a less-than-impressed expression from Michael. A warning expression. One that told him, that if he carried on, he'd be suffering from a broken jaw, neck, or spine. Franklin returned to the living room and resumed watching the television.

"Who was that?" Michael asked him.

"Friends. We're getting a party together." Franklin answered.

"What!?" Michael exclaimed, wanting to keep their evening as low-key as possible. A quiet night in with a few friends. If Trevor or even the police heard about their get-together they could be in serious trouble. Then, Michael realised that there was no point in trying to reason or argue with the young. They wanted their party and he had no choice but to let it happen. Madd Dog was in his fifties and even he agreed with Franklin and Lamar about going ahead with the party, which made Michael feel _very_ old.

"Alright just don't involve me. And don't trash anything." Michael yelled as he left his large penthouse in the unstable and rather irresponsible hands of Lamar, Franklin and Madd Dog. He got in his car and went for a drive. The sun was going down and the streets were surprisingly empty.

He wondered what Jimmy and Tracey were doing. Jimmy had stormed out earlier that day, and he still presumed Tracey in the house. A bad move, in retrospect. Leaving a teenager in the charge of three reckless adults. Which almost made Michael turn back and collect his daughter. Almost. She could handle herself, he thought.

Besides, she wasn't on the property anyway. But Michael didn't know that. Back at the mansion, Lamar was smoking his bong as the guests arrived in multitudes. First was radio host, Lazlow. He seemed really down on his luck lately and so he indulged in De Santa's many various wines and other fine liquids. The music was hyped up to the max and the atmosphere was building. More of the A-listers attending included ex-porn star, Candy Suxx, Clay Jackson, Diva Starr, Tony McTony, Cloe Parker and Al Di Napoli.

Franklin poured himself another glass of vodka as he started chatting up his old friend, Lacey Jonas. Meanwhile, his friends were cranking up the vibe in the living room and kitchen, the Vinewood celebrities now crammed into the mansion. Night had fell as the paparazzi turned up at Michael's place to photograph the increasing numbers of stars attending the house shindig.

As Michael returned to his home, he found a total of twelve sports cars parked outside. "What the hell!" He exclaimed as he got out of his car halfway down the street and ran up to his house. Music was flowing from the house, strangers and superstars alike now raving to the beats. _If Amanda sees this..._ He thought, the very notion turning his stomach. Hordes of cameramen had to be pushed past as the movie producer barged into his house.

Lamar was strung out on the couch with about thirty others, Madd Dog had created his own thralls that were up and dancing to his music DJing. Franklin was literally inside Lacey Jonas and defiling the sacred honour of Michael's kingsize bed. The angry ex-bank robber marched up the stairs to find his partner in crime satisfying the glamour actress. He let out a growl of fury as he heard the pleased moans of Lacey. "Oh yes!" The youngster was screaming.

He flung open the door, alarming the couple who couldn't hear anything over the loud booms of the playlists downstairs. Jonas jumped from Franklin's virile erection as the forty-five year old stomped in. Seconds later, Franklin's seed exploded around the room, splashing on Lacey's face, who was desperately trying to cover herself up to conceal her nude body from Michael.

The enraged movie producer slammed the door shut and continued downstairs to clear out the house. "Alright! Show's over!" Michael barked, smashing Madd Dog over the head with the T.V remote, and breaking the trance all the dancers seemed to be under. He picked up the iFruit attached to the docking station that was pumping the stratospherically loud music out of the house and onto the streets of Los Santos.

Madd Dog slumped to the floor of the lounge and his army of partygoers came back to reality. "Everybody out!" Michael exclaimed. There was a difference between having a party and destroying his house. Which, he told the men in the house beforehand not to do. Minutes later, the house was empty of everyone but Michael, Franklin and Lacey Jonas. Franklin had now cleaned himself up and dressed into his clothes. Lacey however, took some time preparing herself.

She emerged from the bedroom around half an hour after Franklin, confronting the glare of Michael De Santa. "Get out of my house, and don't ever, ever, jerk off in my bedroom, ever again!" Michael exclaimed, though turned his angry screams into a friendly joke at the end of his speech. Franklin giggled at this while Lacey let out a nervous snigger before sprinting out of the house and as far away from the house as possible.

Franklin stayed for a few minutes. "But seriously, I'll take your balls myself if you ever try and wreck my house again." Michael warned. Franklin then set off in one of his own taxi firm's cabs. An hour after the carnage was put to rights, Amanda returned home with Jimmy in tow, but Tracey was out for the night and wouldn't return until at least the next afternoon.

"How was Linda?" Michael asked his wife, who replied:

"She's getting over it. Besides, I don't think she liked John anyway."


	3. Downtrodden

The Breakdown

Downtrodden

He swallowed the can of beer whole, before cracking open another six-pack of Logger Light. Gurgling the alcohol down and tossing it across the rundown trailer, he switched on the T.V, flicking through various channels until he came to Weazel news. Looking up and trying to make sense of the blurred words on the screen, he saw his old friend angrily hitting the famous rapper, Madd Dog across the head with a remote. The newsreader continued to recite an article detailing the movie producer's outburst, before saying "Back to the studio." At which point, the camera focused on the presenters and the story was concluded.

Which piqued the trigger-happy meth dealer's curiosity. "Hmm." Trevor mumbled, thinking. Jumping up off the torn and battered couch, he made for his grimey Bodhi. Caught up in his excitement, he had to pause at the door to collect another twelve-pack of his favoured beer. Finally making his way out of the trailer, he fired up the truck and set off for the airfield. Passing the cacti and rural foliage of the rural areas, his vision hazed and blurred. Like he was losing control...

Despite receding ability to use his senses, he arrived at the hangar in one piece. Approaching his jet, he shook his head to rid himself of the dizziness. Climbing into the cockpit, he steeled himself for the flight. It should take about fifteen minutes to reach his destination. He accelerated, speeding past the runway, he began the ascension and took to the air. Checking over the altitude levels, he ensured all was safe and well with the vehicle. But it seemed he was getting too comfy... Picking up the twelve-pack, he broke off a can and gulped it down in one go. "Oh shit!" He exclaimed, noticing the declining altitude. Throwing the pack behind him, he grasped the yoko and brought the plane back up.

As soon as he dodged a very dangerous bullet, he once again began to feel drowsy. The plane ran over North Los Santos. The scene in front of him began to fluctuate rapidly to his eyes as side effects of his eternal hangover kicked in. Seconds later, a blazing headache came grinding through the pilot's mind. "Uh-oh!" He exclaimed as the aircraft began to fall and run aground. Whirring and alarm sirens began to echo around the vehicle. His only remaining option was to abandon the aeroplane.

Kicking open the door, he strapped on the parachute and clutched his assortment of logger light and leapt from the descending wreckage. Diving into the atmosphere, he felt the breeze against his body. "1...2...3." He counted, waiting to deploy his chute. He observed as his abandoned half a million dollar jet soared through the air and spiralled to the ground and burst into a river of orange. "No, no, no, noo!" Trevor said in an amusing tone. He shut his eyes tight to avoid the spectacle that unfolded as the disowned airplane crashed into the El Burro Heights oil plantation.

_Oh well,_ the pilot thought as he pulled his parachute to his target. Michael De Santa's mansion. He lowered himself nearer and nearer to Rockford Hills. At last he collided with the pavement of Portola Drive, finding his feet as he hit the ground. Now outside his friends residence, he hoisted himself up over the metal gates that kept out unwanted intruders like Trevor. Then, he heard the squabbles of Jimmy and Tracey emanating from within the house.

"Shut up Jimmy! You do _NOT _get to say who I can and can't go out with! God, you sound like Dad!" Tracey shouted back at her brother, her eyes concentrated on her iFruit and storming out of the penthouse. Trevor slipped behind a throng of bushes and hedges to evade her gaze. She slammed the wooden gate behind her and walked off.

"Okay, _I_ have an interview and _you _have a spa session, so let's get going." Michael spoke, placing a kiss on Amanda's cheek and opening the door of his tailgater to let her in.

"Since when have you been such a gentleman?" Amanda queried, stepping into the passenger seat, giggling and scoffing at her husbands remark.

"I've always been a polite gentlemen," Michael retorted.

"Jimmy, make sure you lock the door and don't let any weirdos in." Amanda called back to her son.

"Yeah, I know Mom." The teenager snapped back, carrying himself up the stairs and ignoring his mother's commands.

The couple settled into the car and, seconds after they drove off, Trevor poked his head out of the hedges and sloped up to the front door, crouched, he softly pushed the door open, slipping in and surveying the house. No one in the lounge, empty dining room and the son was playing video games with his headphones placed firmly on. He turned on the television to hear the sounds of the Weazel news broadcasters announcing their upcoming interview with Michael De Santa. They'd be sure to grill him about the incident two nights previously, Trevor was certain of it.

Muting the television and toggling the subtitles so the younger man upstairs wouldn't hear any audio if he should for any reason remove his headset, Trevor lay down on the sofa, still holding his dozen beers. He cracked open another can, slurping its contents down in a matter of gulps. He composed himself and waited for the interview to commence. After around twenty minutes of watching Weazel's coverage of a total of three stories, the live interview between Jim Harrison and Michael De Santa.

"Hello, Michael, hey, how you doing?" Harrison quizzed him in a casual, relaxed way.

"I'm good, thanks for asking." Michael replied, settling into the armchair.

"So, Michael, tell me about your outburst this past Monday. What brought it about? What were the factors? What caused it?" The journalist relentlessly questioned the star. _Let's see you wriggle outta this one, M. _Trevor thought to himself.

"Well, what the problem was, was that, I invited some friends around to have a drink and, basically chill out, but they had other ideas," he explained, honestly so far "so, I said, I didn't want any involvement with what they were doing, so I left my house to drive around town and cool down." He breathed, probably thinking of a clever way to justify abandoning his house.

"And when you returned?" The reported coaxed him, wanting a response.

"Well, I came back to my house to find it covered with paparazzi and other people in the public eye," Michael told the man opposite him, pausing to take a breath "I wasn't happy with the condition they were reducing my house to." He sighed, staying calm for now.

"Which automatically excuses your behaviour." Harrison pushed him.

"I never said that." Michael rejoined, now losing his rag with the T.V reporter.

"Your comments would imply otherwise..." Jim Harrison antagonised him

"You know, I wanna discuss something else." Michael threw his hands in the air, his temper slipping.

"Maybe we should." Harrison agreed, turning over the pages of his interviewee overview.

"Then, let's discuss your new movie, The Breakdown, as it's titled, is a sequel to your last movie, Meltdown."

"Yeah that's right, we're still shooting actually, and I have to give a big thank you to the studio bosses, they've been very helpful and also to the director, Dave, Dave Cooper, he's a brilliant man and great to work with."

"You've also casted quite a few controversial stars out there haven't you?" the journalist asked, giving him a sharp look.

"If that's what you wanna call the younger generation, that's what they are." Michael responded.

"Oh f*ck this! I thought you were better than that, Sugar tits!" Trevor exclaimed, sitting up on the couch and expressing his disappointment at Michael's cool-headed attitude.

Frustrated with his friend, he proceeded to the kitchen to wreak havoc upon the house. Rummaging through the many cupboards, he took out the plethora of wines and champagnes Michael hoarded and smashed them up, their contents leaking all over the floor, causing a mini-flood in the house. He turned on the sink taps, inserting the plug in the plughole and letting the sink fill up. Within minutes, the basin had filled and poured all over the floor, mixing with the various liquids already scattered all over the kitchen.

He kicked open the door, running over to the lounge chairs by the pool and picking them up, heaving them into the water. He continued to cause mayhem, smashing up the counters and destroying the lamps, emptying the refrigerator of all it's food and wading through the building water. He sprinted up the stairs and bolted into Michael's room, in a frenzied haze, ruining everything in sight, launching clothes out of the wardrobe and punching mirrors, alarming Jimmy to the presence in his house. Trevor, now stripping to his shoes, seemed to have gone completely insane.

Remembering his can of beers still downstairs, he leapt from the stairs, thudding to the ground level and entering the living room, picking up his cans and swallowing them whole. Now six left, he threw two at Jimmy who was wide-eyed in shock. The teenager pulled out his cellphone and dialled up his father, informing him of the state of their home and their friend. Minutes later, Trevor was writhing on the floor, hysterically giggling and foaming at the mouth.

Michael pulled up outside the house and wrestled Trevor to the ground and threw him out of the house, instructing Jimmy to turn off the taps and fix the carnage courtesy of Trevor.

"You're a mess, you know that? A god-forsaken, damned mess!" Michael screeched at Trevor, who was giggling and rolling around on the pavement for all bypassers of Portola drive to see. Ron, once again came to Trevor's aid, carting him off back to the downtrodden slums of Blaine County.


	4. Gatecrashers

The Breakdown

Gatecrashers

"And action!" Cooper snapped, the actors jumping into their respective roles as the day's work commenced. Michael studied the body language of the actors, examining their behaviour, less than impressed by their lacking ability to engage their characters. He observed young Poopy Mitchell struggling to memorise her script. She seemed to be signalling to Dave Cooper to spoon-feed her the lines. Michael's suspicions were confirmed as he saw his colleague surreptitiously mouthing her the words.

"Cut!" Michael bellowed, causing the actors to groan in irritation.

"What's wrong with it?!" Poppy cried, angered by the producers decision.

"We've been shooting for three months, _how _have you forgot your lines?" Michael queried the woman, who blushed in embarrassment, glancing around to see who heard her employers words.

"What do you mean?" She asked, denying the accusations.

"I mean, learn your lines and stop relying on your boyfriend to do your job for you." Michael said bluntly. Again, she gushed with shame as nearly the entire studio listened to the conversation.

"Maybe we should go on a tea break." Dave Cooper suggested, and the whole cast and crew mumbled their agreement.

"Gonna be a long day!" A frustrated extra sighed, grabbing an ecola, while Michael helped himself to his favoured daytime beverage, coffee.

Many more tea breaks followed throughout the day, annoying both the cast and crew. The camera crew sat congregated in groups sharing banter and loudly discussing their lives, telling jokes (usually at the expense of the senior project members), the insecure actors dining in their trailers while the directors and other staff debated what to do with the actors.

"Pay rise?" Co-director Mark Fosterburg suggested.

"See, that's your problem, you always think money'll solve everything." Cooper retorted.

"Oh, and filling the lead actress' mouth with crusty sum will?" Fosterburg replied angrily.

"Fellas, calm down!" Michael exclaimed, sitting the two of them back in their seats. "We'll find a way to get them in the zone." The ex-criminal reassured his coworkers. "Whether it's with paychecks or blowjobs, we'll find a way." He added, undermining both men's comments. The circle of directors fell silent for a few awkward moments.

Cast and crew alike reconvened on set to continue shooting the scenes. Pulling the two main actors aside for a minute, Michael warned them they'd be in for a drop in wages if they carried on acting poorly. Almost instantly, the cast were back on form and putting their heart and soul into satisfying the hard-to-please employers.

Just as Michael was enjoying the performance, another hiccup occurred. "Are you sure you want to do this?" Poppy queried Bruce Spade in her best dramatic tone, desperate not to forget her words or make any shortcomings whatsoever. They were about to drill the Vice City stock exchange for all its money.

"Yeah, sure. As long as I have you with me. I don't care if we get caught, I don't care about the sentence." Spade replied, caressing Poppy's cheek in a romantic gesture.

"That's a wrap." Dave Cooper confirmed, relieving everyone on set. Michael stretched in exhaustion of the hard day's work.

"How dare you touch an elderly woman!" A soft-spoken voice echoed from the car park. The crew exchanged half-worried, half-confused glances. Michael, his bodyguard and the executive director Chris Froemburns went to investigate the source of the noise.

A security guard lay injured on the floor as a sixty-something woman hammered her handbag over his head. "I only wanted an autographed balloon! Is that too much to ask these days?!" A British accent exclaimed, the owner being a female senior citizen with a large handbag.

"OK lady, put your weapon down and leave the premises or you may be forcefully escorted out of the building." Froemburns told the pensioner. She stared at the trio if men for a moment, before running off, struggling to sprint away from her pursuers. The bodyguard gave chase while a security guard blocked her at the other end of her path.

"Move out of my way!" She screeched, taking off a high-heel and hitting the guard over the head with her footwear. Proceeding to the set, she found her quarry: Bruce Spade. "There you are!" She sighed with relief, opening her arms to hug the star. The actor wore an apishly perplexed look about his face. Seconds later she was being restrained by multiple guards, protesting her innocence. "Nigel! Nigel! Get them off me!" She exclaimed, calling after her partner, who stood about ten feet away watching the spectacle unfold.

Before he could move, he too was being apprehended by six guards. Police vans arrived at the studios moments after the man was wrestled to the ground. The guards handed the couple over to the authorities, determined to make sure they were carted off to the station. Michael kept clear of their curious eye, leaving the set shortly after the whole intruder incident was dealt with.

He threw himself in his tailgater, sighing with gratitude for the conclusion of the day and eager to return to his family at his dreamhouse.

The tailgater sped through the streets, it's driver rushing home to the comforts of his penthouse. The producer wondered how his wife may react to the news of a fanatical old couple barging into the studio just for an autograph. Reflecting on the events of the day, he recalled Trevor had recently told him about such a couple he had helped collect possessions for.

That was before his friend had went off the rails about five weeks ago. Shaking all thoughts of Trevor from his head, he concentrated on reaching the luxurious warmth of Portola drive. He pictured unwinding on the sofa, before the grim realisation that Trevor's handiwork still hadn't been reversed. "Oh no!" Michael exclaimed as he remembered the events of the past three days.

Which almost cost him his life as the car just skimmed a buffalo sports car. "Watch where you're going!" The driver of the buffalo screamed back as Michael drove on. Finally, he aproached Rockford Hills and slowed down as he parked his car in the drive.

Getting out, he exhaled heavily in tiredness. He carried himself inside, went upstairs and settled down on the half-repaired bed. Closing his eyes, he drifted off into a blissful sleep.


End file.
